


Grave Can't Hold My Body Down

by EluWrites (DeanC)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Buried Alive, Demonic Possession, Grief/Mourning, I can't decide yet if this will be angst or fluff, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-07 19:45:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21463519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanC/pseuds/EluWrites
Summary: When you have a funeral for a friend, you never expect to see them again.What happens if they come back?Warning: Fic set post-Ep4, spoilers inside
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 22
Kudos: 64





	1. Bury a Friend

**Author's Note:**

> I loved UnDeadwood SO very much, the ending was perfect and BWF is a master of storytelling.  
But who in fandom cannot but think 'what if'? Isn't that the entire point of fanfic?  
Anyways... here's my little 'what if Clayton came back'.  
Much love to everyone in the UnDeadwood discord for inspiration and encouragement for writing my second ever bit of fanfic <3

Matthew barely remembers the few hours after seeing Clayton fall. Somehow they managed to get his body to the doctor’s old rooms and onto the bench. They’d had to scrounge up a coffin and Miriam, ever practical and strong, had gone into Clayton’s room to find a clean shirt and vest for him. The reverend had helped dress him and lift him into the coffin, but now he laid in state in the doc’s office, waiting, his hands settled on the hat over his chest, his guns at his side. It surprised him how, after knowing the man barely a week, getting to know him as little as anyone else did, seeing him dead and still affected him. Each time he saw the pale flesh, closed eyes, unmoving chest, he felt tears prickle at his eyes and an ache beneath his ribs. It felt like he was mourning something he’d never actually had, despair for what could have been, and now never would. 

The rain had come on not long after the body had been settled in the doctor’s office, heavy and loud, soaking everything. Matthew felt it suited their mood somewhat perfectly, soaking everything, a soft, continual sound in the background to help stave off the emotions that silence would allow in. It meant the burial had to be delayed, the ground in the graveyard too sodden to dig a new hole. A guilty part of him was glad of it, he didn’t -want- to give a funeral for Clayton, or Amos, or whomever he had been. He knew that when he did, it was done, over, finished. The man they’d all come to care for, who had saved their lives and had his saved in return, was gone. 

Aly had left the morning after, without a word, just a cold glance at each of them as he passed through the main room of the Gem and out into the downpour. Miriam had glared as if she hoped it’d drop him where he stood. Arabella’s tears had come again, and with no tear catcher, they dripped onto the table, echoing the sounds of the rain outside. For Matthew’s part, he’d decided already that he forgave Aloycious. The man was keeping the law and following his convictions, for all Clayton claimed fervently that the charges were false. He could tell there was possibly more to it that Aly wouldn’t speak of, and he couldn’t begrudge the man for his silence on the matter. He also hoped they’d never see Mr Fogg in Deadwood again. Not for a good long time. Forgiveness was easy, but forgetting would likely be impossible for all of them.

The rain finally let up a couple of evenings later, and they agreed on the funeral in the morning, being a Sunday. Matthew withdrew from the Gem once that had been decided and headed for the still ramshackle church, settled at the altar on his knees, head bent, hands clasped.

“Holy Father, I ask you for strength tomorrow. I don’t know why I’m visited with such a deep feeling of loss, whether it’s for him being a good man, or some other reason that you’ve yet to reveal to me. Part of me wants to seek a selfish miracle, to ask for that day to not have happened, for my… our.. friend Clayton to be returned to us. But your plan is yours to know alone, and I’m sure you’ve taken him from us for a reason. So instead I beseech you for your guidance for tomorrow, for the words to pay true respect to Clayton Sharpe, and to give comfort to my friends. Amen.”

With wet eyes and damp cheeks, the reverend headed up to his rooms and to his bed. Sleep eventually found him, his pillow damp, eyes red, body exhausted from racking sobs that he just about managed to keep silent. 

Sunday’s dawn was beautiful, the sky lightening with soft pinks and purples, leading to a thankfully clear sky, the remnants of the storm clouds far off on the horizon. The ground had dried enough that the gravediggers could get their work done in plenty of time. It was decided not to hold the funeral in the church. Clayton had openly not been a religious man, and it felt like an insult to enforce that now. Instead, it was held beneath a tree near the graveyard, the coffin in it’s shadow along with the reverend, everyone else in the morning sun. Somehow Matthew got through the last rites, then closed his prayer book and looked at the crowd gathered. _Everyone_ from Deadwood had come; Al Swearengen, Jonny and all the staff of the Gem, all of the Whoresassins, even Arabella’s husband had been convinced to come out of the house, though he looked distinctly uncomfortable, and it was Miriam who was holding ‘Bella’s hand to keep her anchored.

“Friends… we meet here today to honour… and to say goodbye… to a friend. None of us managed to know Clayton Sharpe well, he held all of his cards so close to his chest. Myself, Miriam and Arabella got chance to see a glimpse of them in our work for the town. Whenever he saw one of us struggle, he stepped up to lend a hand without comment, indeed should he be thanked for this, he was uncomfortable. For all I can imagine his reputation was earned, he was loyal, humble, and a brave man.” 

A guilty part was glad he’d managed to shed all his tears the night before, his eyes remaining dry as he nodded to Al and the boys to help carry the coffin to the grave and lower it in. With the commendation to the earth given, he picked up a box of grave dirt and murmured his own soft prayer before dropping a handful into the grave. It was then that Miriam and Arabella approached, both women weeping, and did the same. Others repeated the ritual and made their way away, but the three of them remained until the grave had been filled in, tired from the day, even as it was barely noon.

With soft words and gentle touches, both of them lead him toward the hotel, organised food for the three of them and sat in silence as they ate, ignoring empty chairs at the table. Joanie and a couple of the girls stopped by to give hugs and quiet words. Matthew barely heard or felt any of it. He felt drained, empty like a bucket with a hole. He felt guilty for the slight sense of relief as well, the weight of the funeral finally lifted from him. He wasn’t ready to think about tomorrow, about using that mass of money Mr Swearengen had given them to start rebuilding the chapel, about what he’d do next, but he felt that, after food and rest, he might be able to. 

At Miriam’s convincing, he spent the night at the hotel rather than the drafty chapel, having spent the evening with the two women in gentle comfort, sharing anecdotes, discussing books and interests and generally trying to distract themselves from the day. When he slept, it was deep, dreamless, and his pillow remained dry. 

With the moon high overhead, Deadwood was entirely silent. Neither the Gem or the Bella Union were hosting people that night. While the town may not be in any way pious, they were respectful of the dead, and let the place gain a slight bit of calm after the funeral. No one was in any way close enough to hear a deeply muffled shout from beneath the earth, nor, an hour later, to see a freshly covered grave’s dirt…. Shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty... that's the scene set... now I need help deciding if this will be the way of Fluff or the way of Angst.  
halp?  
Main title is from Ain't No Grave Can Hold My Body Down by Johnny Cash  
Chapter 1 title - Bury a Friend - Billie Ellish


	2. Take Me To Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clayton makes his way to the one place that's familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes at end

_Darkness, a confined space, still, musty air greeted Clayton as he woke. He did whatever any sane person would do, and panicked, pushing and punching at the boards around him, emptying his lungs with screaming. His entire world had cut down to what he could feel, the dark so complete he couldn’t even see a hand in front of his face. No name, no place, no time, only the need to be out, to have open air around him, to be on his feet rather than his back. Pure animal hindbrain, fight and flight at once. He couldn’t outrun the box he was in, so his energy went into destroying it._

STOP.

_The voice cut through everything and he went statue still within his confines, not even breathing. Had he imagined it? Where did it come from? He didn’t think he’d heard it through his actual ears, even. The panic remained, but it paused for now, waiting to see if he heard it again, eyes flicking around blindly, his mind latching onto the interaction like a lifeline. Had he imagined it?_

BREAK THE BOARDS.

_Another instruction, and he found himself obeying it. He hit out at the boards above him, open-handed at first, switching to fists as he started to hear the pine creaking. Pausing only to ensure his hat and the guns he’d found at his hips were with him, he continued, pushing upward through the soft soil that flowed into the hole he’d made. It was hard and frustrating, like swimming with something dragging him down, but slowly, he started to get the technique. Eventually, his fingers felt fresh air above and he rested a moment, relieved._

GET OUT.

The last instruction rang in his mind and gave him the final impetus to drag himself out of the dirt and roll aside from the grave, coughing. With a grunt, he leaned back in a moment, dragging his now battered and muddy hat out of the dirt, then settled on his back, staring up at the night sky, the moon and stars illuminating the graveyard around him. The chill in his lungs was precious, he couldn’t remember a time he’d breathed sweeter air. He blinked at that thought and slowly sat up. Trying to remember when lead him to trying to remember where which immediately lead to who. The grave behind him had a wooden cross as a marker with a name. _Clayton Sharpe, aka Amos Kinsley. _He wasn’t sure which name was really his, but it gave him another anchor, another piece to hold on to. Both names echoed around his head as he got to his feet, a little wobbly still, and brushed off some of the dirt. 

Down the hill, the moon shone over a town, little more than a collection of buildings. Most of them were dark though lights still shone in a window or two. The street lead the way to a chapel, white paint luminous, though it looked damaged, some parts of the wall showing fire damage. It gave him a feeling, fleeting as it was, of comfort, familiarity. He chased the feeling as he turned his boots toward the chapel and started to walk.

NO. NOT THERE.

Shaking his head, he ignored the voice this time. What was a voice to a feeling? What hold did words have on him when something that felt like a memory beckoned to him? 

The street was empty as he passed by the buildings, the names of them causing further ripples of feeling somewhere in his chest. _The Bella Union, The Gem Saloon, The Bullock Hotel._ All of them were passed, his eyes always turning back to the church and the stairs up it’s side to the rooms under the eaves of the roof. He knew something was there for him, something he needed to get to. The wood of the stairs creaked quietly as he stepped up and to the door. Once there, though, he hesitated, hand lifted to knock.

MISTAKE.

_No._ Again, he shook his head, ridding himself of the voice, and knocked, waited. Nothing. He leaned, pressing an ear to the door and didn’t even hear breathing, let alone snoring. Knocking again, louder this time, and another wait. Nothing. Another emotion bubbled up from his chest. Worry? More panic? He tried the door and found it unlocked, so stepped cautiously inside. The place was unfamiliar and sparse. It wasn’t a home so much as a place for one person to eat, sleep and wash himself in private. Two chairs at the table, though only one was askew, the other pressed close to the edge. 

Closing the door behind him, Calyton stepped in further and glanced around the doorway into the second room. A single cot bed, rumpled sheets, closed curtains, a Bible on the bedside, but no person. Worry was replaced by disappointment. He continued to look around, however, learning what he could about who he expected to be here and why. Was this his home? Had he slept in that bed? He didn’t think so. Frustration took over and he frowned down at his still mud-grubby hands.

LEAVE. SLEEP. 

Something dragged at his limbs with the second word, a more physical feeling he’d staved off for now. He was _tired. _The digging and dragging himself out of the grave had been exhausting. The walk hadn’t been short either, and the waves of emotions had sapped more energy than he had realised. He turned to the cot bed, contemplating it. The sheets were spotless, if creased. He didn’t want to spoil them with his muddy self, so he glanced to the floor. The frame of the bed was somewhat higher than he’d perhaps been anticipating. _Makes sense for a tall man to have a tall bed._ Deciding not to question where that thought had come from, he got onto the floor and crawled under the frame, hiding him from the moonlight that made the plain grey curtain glow dimly. The gun belt was unfastened and dragged next to his head, his hat was left aside, and he tried to get comfortable, pillowing one arm under his head.

FINE. REST.

All at once, his body went still, breathing ceasing. He was a corpse once more, for now at least.

\------------------------

Matthew had been glad to follow the advice both Miriam and Arabella had given. Having a night of sleep away from the church, having had an evening of comfort and distraction with his friends had been just the remedy needed after the funeral. Monday morning had dawned bright and dry and woken him from dreamlessness. He’d prayed already for the Lord’s forgiveness at spending that slight bit of his earned money on a room for the night. He supposed that if it let him heal fully, finally, then God would forgive.

He did, however, need to stop by his home to change his shirt and underclothes, having slept in them. The stairs up to his scant domicile creaked familiarly under his feet as he headed up them and to his door to let himself in. He took the time to open the curtains in the tiny window the main room had, then headed to the bedroom to do the same. It didn’t take him long to switch his clothes and head back out for breakfast with the two women at the Bella Union, Miriam wanting them all to keep in touch with the women there. Indeed, she’d suggested he start taking confession from the women, and to his great surprise, one or two had agreed. He found himself humming a gentle hymn to himself, half mumbling the words as he headed back out, carefully closing the door behind him.

The next time he saw the inside of his home, it was late evening, the sun having mostly set. A little colour to his cheeks and the slightest of sways to his walk showed he’d ended up giving in to the offers of the women of the Bella Union for a drink. The three of them had ended up staying the entire day with the women, alternately hearing confession, tending to wounds and complaints, counselling those who simply wanted advice, and being fed and watered by the group of them. The night had ended with a simple, yet entertaining, card game. Each had had a name of a famous person or figure written on a card and held to their forehead, and needed to guess who they were based on answers to questions asked of the rest. Matthew hadn’t had any clue who he was, and had been told the forfeit was three shots. He’d somehow fared better in the second round, whiskey or no, and had guessed he was Al Swearengen correctly. The third round had seen them all half giddy with laughter as Miriam had swatted at the reverend for giving her ‘one of those snakes’, and all others giving extremely lewd responses to her questions.

Glad he didn’t stumble into his room, he kicked off his boots and set about changing into his nightshirt. The bed was unmade but at that point, he didn’t much care and settled onto it, dragging the blanket over him and settling into the pillow.

And rapidly shot back off the bed and toward the window as something moved beneath the mattress and scraped across the floorboards beneath, giving a yell of surprise. In a rush he was very sober, very awake and reached for the shotgun he kept in his bedroom for safe keeping, pointing it at the bed.

He nearly dropped it as a dishevelled and muddy Clayton Sharpe clambered out from beneath the bed, rubbing his face blearily with one hand, smudging mud over it, and using the other to settle his hair.

“.. Cl… Clayton?”

_The bed above him creaked and the sheets rustled. It woke him, smashing him out of whatever depth of sleep he’d been in. Panic returned and he shoved up at the surface above his nose, only to realise it wasn’t pine boards but bed slats. He’d yelled out and flailed, then started to drag himself from under the bed, only to be confronted by Matthew’s face and both barrels of the shotgun pointed at him._

Clayton dropped his hat and held up both hands in a rather desperate, placating gesture. He’d seen the Reverend scared before, but never scared of him. What the hell had happened?

“It’s me, Mason, it’s just me. Lower the gun, ‘less you shoot me by mistake. Not rightly sure how I got here but…”

For all Matthew had turned white as a sheet on seeing the apphirition crawl from beneath his bed, that voice, the way of speaking, the way he moved. Those were all clearly Clayton Sharpe, in the flesh, moving and speaking. The shotgun’s barrel lowered of it’s own accord, pointed away and to the side of Clay. Words had all escaped him for now, eyes wide as he continued to take in the sight and the silence between them stretched to awkward lengths, which the gunslinger broke.

“You alright there, Reverend? Look… I’m gonna go back out to the other room and sit, nice and slow. I’ll take a seat at your table. You come through when you feel like.”

He’d started to move as he spoke, taking careful steps to the side and back. He didn’t like leaving his guns and hat behind, but reaching for them under the bed would likely not have helped. Keeping to his word, he stepped out of the room and only turned away once the sightline with the Reverend had been broken. The chair complained when he dropped into it and let out a breath. Imminent danger relieved, he noticed the amount of mud he was caked in and grumbled to himself softly, trying to brush some of it from his hair and clothing.

With Clayton, or what he hoped was Clayton, out of view, Matthew finally dragged in a lungful of air, turned, and sat on the edge of the bed, his knees having gone limp. The shotgun ended up held across his thighs as he just sat and breathed for a good five minutes. _Am I going mad, or has the Good Lord thought to test me by sending this apparition? Or, could it possibly, miracle of miracles, be him?_ Slowly, he found his feet once more and set the shotgun aside. Next came more clothes, pulling on his trousers under the night shirt and switching the latter for his actual shirt. While dressing, he’d noticed the hat and gunbelt half hidden under the bed still and he picked them up. The hat was far more muddy than he’d ever seen it, even through all of their adventures. Procrastinating, he took some time to clean the worst of the dirt from it. He’d left Clayton alone in the other room for near fifteen minutes at this point. Time to bite the bullet.

Clay looked up as Matthew emerged from the bedroom, dressed, but looking no less out of sorts. The wide-eyed stare was starting to disturb him somewhat, though he was distracted as his guns and now mostly clean hat were put silently on the table. The other chair was drawn and the preacher settled into it across the table, his hands ending up studiously folded together in front of him. He was starting to get the shape of what happened, though it wasn’t entirely there yet.

“What’s the last thing you remember, Clayton?”

His hand came to rest on the gun belt, a comforting thing, as he considered the question. Before he woke under the bed, what? _Screaming, punching, broken pine boards and dirt in his mouth._ Shaking his head, he thought back earlier, before that fever-dream of a memory.

“Aly drawin’ on me. Tellin’ me it was justice, that the asshole Swearengen had told him somethin’ about me, showed him a wanted poster or somesuch. I remember tellin’ him it wasn’t me, an’ him… his eyes were dead. An’ he said it was jus’ justice.”

He met Matthew’s gaze, and unlike any other time the two had met gazes, there was no mask over Clayton Sharpe’s features. Perhaps this was the true man, Amos Kinsley or whoever else he had been. There was no reference for the Reverend to compare to, and the raw, stricken, scared and confused expression hit him hard. His hand reached out of it’s own accord, resting over Clayton’s on the gunbelt. Clay didn’t draw away>

“He shot you, Clayton. Or Amos. Whichever. You two had a duel, you were shooting for his gun hand, he was shooting to kill, and he got you in the heart. I… we… all saw you fall, saw you die.”

Words could hit like bullets, and each of Matthews struck true. Clayton slumped a little in the chair, though he was careful not to move that hand. For all he’d shunned physical contact for a long time, that one point of it was helping him stay calm. _Anchored._ He processed what was said, and while he didn’t have clear memory of it, it made a kind of sense. Aly was, had been, a friend, a brother in arms. He’d not have wanted the man dead, whatever the other had wanted of him. Going for the gun hand meant ending the duel and giving chance for them to actually talk, or for him to flee as he’d done before. Change his name, change his face and hide. All the evidence pointed to the outcome Matthew was giving.

“And you buried me.”

Three more words hitting their mark, and Matthew winced, then nodded.

“Just yesterday morning. Rain meant we had to wait for the hole to be dug. Everyone was there.”

“You and Arabella and Miriam you mean?”

That got him a stare.

“No, the whole of Deadwood, Clayton. Even Bella’s husband turned up, though he fled before. Before the actual burial. You helped keep the town safe. People were grateful.”

Silence returned as both of them processed feelings. The point of contact remained though, unthinking, Clay’s fingers curled a little around Mason’s hand, spreading a smudge of mud across the knuckles.

“The whole town huh?”

“Al Swearengen stood near the front.”

Finally, tensions broke as Clayton snorted at that and Matthew gave the first semblance of a smile.

“Did he cry?”

“He looked a little wobbly, though Jonny did offer him a handkerchief at one point.”

The dam broke and both started to chuckle, Clay pinching the bridge of his nose and Mason lowering his gaze. It went on for an entire minute, the gunslinger eventually covering his mouth and glancing to the priest, whose own giggles slowly subsided. Their gazes met once more and both shook their heads.

“I still can’t quite believe it. Part of me is still pretty sure I’m dreaming, except that I’m rather sure I’m not, as tired as I am.”

Clay glanced to the window and frowned, grimacing. He’d forgotten that this was the deep of night, that he’d likely spent all day asleep beneath the Reverend’s bed. Oddly, he didn’t feel hungry, thirsty, or even the need to relieve himself. Puzzles for another time. He gently removed his hand from under Mason’s.

“Shit, yeah, it’s gone midnight. You should sleep. I should… go. Somewhere.”

Sleep was tempting, but the idea of Sharpe leaving again brought back a stab of fear and Mason shook his head as he got to his feet.

“No! No… I’ll find my bedroll and you can have the floor or something. I guess you aren’t actually tired? I’ve got books, well. Two.”

Having not been entirely sure of where he’d go anyways, Clayton jumped on the offer and nodded, his emotions entirely schooled once more.

“I ain’t read the Good Book yet but… maybe being dea… gone.. Is the prompt I need to start huh? Tell me where the bedroll is and I’ll get it, you go get settled.”

Relieved, Mason nodded and padded back to his room to get settled once more, quickly changing back to his nightshirt and settling the blankets before sliding under them. There was just about enough room beside the bed for the bedroll on the floor. He watched as Clay returned with it, along with his hat and one gun, and got it ready. He passed the Bible from his bedside down to the other man. It was accepted with a soft snort.

“G’night, Reverend.”

“Goodnight, Clayton. It’s good to have you back.”

\-------------------------

Matthew’s sleep had taken a while to come the second time around, but the whiskey still in him had taken hold again eventually and he’d dozed and finally slept. He’d dreamed of grave mud and gunshots and blue eyes under the brim of a hat. He woke once the sunlight filtered through his curtain again and grumbled at the inconvenience. A quiet rumble of a voice sounded from the floor beside his bed.

“Mornin’.”

The previous night’s conversation came to him and he rolled over to see Clayton on his back on the bed roll, still covered in mud, though it now looked dry and dusty. The daylight also showed him that the pallour he’d taken for a trick of the moonlight hadn’t been. His flesh looked somewhat dead, even if the eyes and expression weren’t. Not quite being awake yet kept him a little wary. He spotted that Clay appeared to be about a third of the way through the Bible.

“Good morning. Did you read all night?”

Clayton eyed the book, marked his page and closed it. It had actually been a pretty interesting read, save some bits had been a little explicit and uncomfortable to read, and others plain confusing. Shrugging, he set the book on the bedside once more and got up, a shower of dirt sloughing from him.

“Not all night. Thought a bit as well. I’ll go get the coffee started, tell you my thoughts after.”

Watching Clay’s retreating back for a moment, Mason let the slight dumbfounded feeling wash over him and scrubbed at his face. His skull then decided to throb, and memory of whiskey returned to him. Of all things, he did not need both a hangover and dealing with a returned Clayton Sharpe. That was what the Lord had provided him for the day, however, and he decided it was best to accept what was given and get on with the day. It didn’t take him too long to dress and head to the kitchen to accept the coffee made.

They kept their silence for a while, both settling at the table, Mason sipping quietly, Clayton nursing his coffee and not drinking it. He tried not to stare at the Reverend, politely keeping his gaze lowered to give the man some privacy as he let the drink bring him to wakefulness.

“You said you had thoughts?”

A nod and Clay sat up a little.

“I did. I think I need to see Arabella. I don’t know how, why, I’m back. I feel a little out of sorts, truth be told. She’d be the one with the books that’d maybe tell me what happened.”

Mason gave a nod of agreement to this and set down his tin cup.

“I agree, I was thinking that myself. I’ll give it a short while, check on the chapel perhaps, and then head over. I don’t want to go disturbing her breakfast with her husband.”

“I got a favour to ask as well. Mind if I make use of that tin tub you’ve got over there?”

Clay nodded to the tin bathtub Mason kept toward the back of his kitchen, and the Reverend chuckled, giving a nod in return.

“Yes, I think you’ve brought half the graveyard with you. I’ll see if I can find some of your old clothes. I know your room was cleared out but I don’t know where they went after. I’ll ask around or get you some others.”

With a brief farewell, Reverend Mason headed out for the day, his plan to bring Arabella to his home and show Clayton to her foremost in his thoughts.

\-----------

I THOUGHT HE WOULD NEVER LEAVE.

Clayton all but jumped out of his seat at the voice and looked around wildly for it’s source, his hand reaching to his currently bare hip, his guns having been left in the bedroom.

“Who the fuck said that? What the hell is going on?”

YOU REALLY SHOULD HAVE ASKED THAT EARLIER. 

_Am I crazy as well as back from the dead? _The thought rattled around Clayton’s mind as he headed for the bedroom to collect his guns and hat, wanting the comfort of his few belongings to help with this new weirdness.

NO, NOT CRAZY, JUST DIFFERENT.

He froze at this new revelation. Whoever this voice was, it was in his head now? Exercising calm, he breathed, settling.

“Alright. So who the fuck are you?”

GETTING RATHER TIRED OF YOUR INTERFERENCE. LET US FIX THIS.

Pain seared through Clay’s head and he dropped both hat and guns, and fell to his knees, hands wrapped around his skull. It hurt so much, it drove all air from his lungs and prevented him from screaming. The hurt spread to his heat and he gripped the front of his vest as well. Something moved in him, and as much as he tried to fight it, he felt it was a losing battle. Consciousness fled and his face met the floor.

A slow, languorous smile spread over Clayton’s lips as he lay there. He slowly got his hands under him and pushed, dragging himself to his feet as though out of practice. Upright, he stared at his hands, turning them over, then curling them into fists.

“... Good. Very good. Time to get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from that song everyone knows by Hozier.  
Thanks again to the UnDeadwood discord crew <3  
Ideas for how Harrowed work taken from the Deadlands RPG setting


	3. The Devil wears a Suit and Tie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The manitou has some fun and plants some seeds.

Clayton, or at least the being that currently wore Clayton’s body, heard the Reverend approaching the hovel he called home. It could feel a slight burn from the proximity of the church, but these two rooms were bearable. It had spent the few moments alone checking through all the cupboards, the drawers, the bookshelves and flicked through the reverend’s scant journal. It was the latter that had given the manitou ideas on exactly how to cause the havoc it craved.

It spent the last couple of minutes in front of the Reverend’s tiny mirror, practicing. It wasn’t too hard to let Clayton’s muscles settle into their natural frown, to let his brain remember how to make his voice do that gravelly, rolling thing. The body was a slight bit tricky, but he got there, a slight slouch to the spine and dropping shoulders. Perfect.

_They’ll know, they have to know, they know me._

The spirit made Clayton’s hand brush off the comment as he heard the preacher speaking to someone outside. The woman married to her dead sister’s husband, the occultist. The hardest one to convince, most likely, but also the first to be met. It had a plan, time to put it into action.

\----------------

“Thank you for this, Mrs Whitlock. I know you’re busy but it really is important and I’m sure you’ll see why in just a moment.”

Arabella was starting to get a slight bit annoyed with Matthew’s stammering on. He’d insisted she find a way out of the house and come with him. Having to make excuses to her husband was becoming tedious, of course, but it had to be done. Decorum and her family and all of that. He funded her books and was patient about her absences, indeed he’d quietly paid for the funeral and wake for Clayton as well, not that he entirely understood that he’d done so. Still, the Reverend’s insistence had been curious, so here she was, having a slightly dirty seat being drawn for her inside Matthew’s tiny rooms. 

“Please, Reverend. I understand you’re nervous about something, but please do start getting to the point?”

Drawing a breath, Matthew stepped back to glance into his bedroom and, thankfully, saw Clayton there. He thought he caught a slight bit of nervousness about the gunslinger, and gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile and a nod. To his relief, Clayton nodded back, drew himself up and stepped into the main room.

Self control and comportment had been drilled into ‘Bella from a very young age; upholding the family honour, keeping a good image, keeping from embarrassing anyone. It was only this ingrained stiff upper lip that kept her from screaming as she saw a dead man step through Matthew’s bedroom door. She felt the blood drain from her features and lips part in shock at the dirt-covered shape.

An exchange of shots ringing along the thoroughfare of Deadwood, Miriam’s cries and pleas, Aly’s stoic face, the soft, ironic smirk as a man bled out.

“Clayton?”

Clay nodded, removing his hat, ever the gentlemen.

“Yeah, it’s me, Mrs Whitlock.”

Slowly, he stepped closer, drew out the other chair and sat, Arabella staring at him the entire time. Her hands gripped the edge of the table tight enough that the leather of her gloves creaked softly.

“How?”

He glanced up at Matthew, who gave another encouraging nod, fighting to keep the small, relieved smile from his lips. He kept his word slow, unsure and halting, now and again letting his gaze return to the preacher for reassurance, or perhaps guidance.

_She won’t buy it._

SHE WILL, NOW SHUT UP.

“Well, I don’t rightly know. I remember the… the duel. I remember a pain in my chest and then just… nothing. Then I woke up here, think I surprised the good Reverend here, truth be told.”

Matthew’s little chuckle at the comment was perfect, as was the hand that was dropped on Clayton’s shoulder.

Arabella watched this exchange, slowly easing from her shock and glancing between the two men, though her gaze lingered a little more on the priest than the undead. The spirit thought it sensed the slightest start of suspicion there, exactly as it had hoped.

“You don’t know what happened in between? Just that you awoke here? No coffin, no being buried?”

Clayton mutely shook his head, eyes a little wide.

“I see… you don’t know anything neither, Reverend, just that he woke up here?”

“Yes ma’am, I was trying to sleep and felt something moving under my bed, and out he crawled.”

The suspicion entered her voice a little now. The spirit just about managed to avoid making Clayton smirk by lowering his head and making him frown, shame, or perhaps hiding something.

“He… was under your bed? Right. How did he get so dirty? Is all this dirt from you, Clayton?”

SHIT.

_Told ya. Bella ain’t dumb._

Clay’s head lifted quickly, glancing at Matthew with concern.

“I was going to ask… you have a tin bath tub, right?”

Distracted from Bella’s train of thought, Mason blinked and nodded, giving Clayton an indulgent smile and squeezing his shoulder.

“Of course, but it’ll take a while to get all the water in, and I gotta do it all myself. How about you and Arabella talk and I’ll get that going.”

That was how, thankfully, the spirit found itself alone with the famed Mrs Whitlock for a few moments, as the priest went to find a bucket and start bringing water in. The suspicion had already started in her, it was time to fan it from spark to flame, then set her on her way. She reached for Clayton’s arm, hesitantly putting a hand on it, proving he was solid.

“Is it really you, Clayton?”

Slowly, carefully, Clayton moved his hand closer so only two of his fingers touched hers where they lay on his arm. The move of a man not used to touch. The spirit made his face look suitably grave as he nodded.

“Yeah, s’me, ‘Bella. I don’t know how or why but it’s me.”

“Alright. Reverend seem okay to you?”

He glanced to the door, perhaps a tad nervously, then back to her.

“Truth be told, I don’t know. He’s been… jumpy. Touchy, you know? Like he can’t quite believe I’m here neither. Mighty strange.”

Arabella’s almost angry glare toward the door, from which the sound of a pump filling a bucket could be heard distantly, almost made the spirit sing.

“I see.”

She didn’t say any more for a while, just kept her hand on his arm. When Mason returned, hefting two buckets, he gave them both a smile and set one on the stove while the other got poured into the tin tub at the end of the room.

“Might take a while, don’t mind me.”

Standing once Matthew was past her, her hand withdrew from Clayton’s arm, and brushed off some remnants of grave dirt from her dress.

“Reverend, Clayton, I think it time I return home and get to researchin’ what might have happened. Got a lot of books to read and such. If I find anythin’, I’ll come right over, although…”

Another of Arabella’s thoughtful pauses while both men turned to her, listening.

“You should tell Miriam. She can help get some fresh clothes for you Clayton, and she’d want to know.”

Another play at a nervous glance toward the Reverend, well within the woman’s view, and the spirit let Matthew answer.

“If you think so, you’re a little closer to her than we are. Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Alright, tomorrow. I’ll bring her over around eleven or so.”

Once the Reverend had confirmed, she gave one last glance to Clayton and made her way out.

\------------------------------

The bath indeed took a few buckets to fill, the last two being left on the stove to heat up. Matthew arranged himself some lunch, though Clayton declined, instead just watching him eat. The silence was mostly companionable, a few exchanged, slightly awkward smiles and words. The bath was eventually filled and steaming, and Clay shuffled over to it. Matthew hovered by the door.

“I should, um, give you some privacy.”

THIS WILL BE DELICIOUS.  
_What? No… not him too…_  
BUT YOU LIKE HIM.

Of course, Clayton spoke up, frowning, a vaguely desperate note in his voice as he responded.

“No! I mean… you could just, turn your back a moment. I don’t… I’d not mind the company. In the room I mean.”

Matthew searched his face at the comment, trying to comprehend all that Clayton was saying, perhaps what he was avoiding saying as well. Seemingly satisfied, he gave a nod and turned his back. 

The spirit carefully undressed the body and stepped it into the heated water. Sitting, he reached for the sponge and soap that had been provided. The water had already turned a slightly murky colour.

“If I can ask another favour, Reverend, a little help gettin’ my back clean?”

The priest’s deep blush caused it to cackle long and hard, the sound rattling around Clay’s scalp as he could do little more than watch. Mason’s care with where he looked and how he gently sponged off the gunslinger’s back just made it worse. 

SO STUPID

_Just, stop, alright? What do you even want?_

CHAOS

The ‘thank you’ came out as barely a murmur from Clay’s lips, but Matthew heard it and the sponge lowered. He rested a hand on the other’s now bared shoulder and squeezed. Clay’s hand lifted to grip his wrist and squeeze back, thumb rubbing over the bared skin of his forearm, the priest's sleeves rolled up to keep them dry. He leaned against the edge of the tin tub as though wanting to get closer still, and felt another arm around him, an awkward sideways hug. His head found Mason’s shoulder and rested there. 

Matthew remained still like that for a while, glad to be able to give comfort. He still wasn’t entirely sure why he’d gone from the depths of grief to giddy relief at Clay’s return, but had decided not to question it, not until now. Now the man sat naked in his tub, leaning against him, the pair of them embraced together. Something like hope sparked in his chest, encouraging an entire set of thoughts and feelings he’d long since thought put away to unfold a little. He broke the embrace stiffly, a little concerned at the train of his thoughts.

“I… uh.. I’ll let you. Finish off. Your back’s clean. I’ll find some spare clothes in the bedroom and leave you to it.”

The cackling returned as Mason all but ran from the tub and retreated. Out of view, the spirit let Clayton’s face crack an amused grin as he went back to getting clean, laying back and curling up the legs to let the hair get washed. He heard the door slam closed as he sat up again, water dripping from him.

IT BEGINS

_Enough already! Get your damn self back where you came from._

NO

Clay’s body rose from the water and stepped out of the tub, reaching for the cloth that had been left to dry himself with. Or rather, he reached for it as he took a step and lurched, dropping to one knee. It was the spirit’s turn to clutch at the gunslinger’s head in pain.

_Get the hell outta my body!_

STOP!

Mason heard the thump and stumble of a man’s body hitting the wooden floor of his place. Cursing himself for being a coward, he ran back inside, only to find Clayton on the floor, clutching his head, the towel fallen on top of him. The soft whine of pain broke him, and he drew the gunslinger into his arms, heedless of the bared skin and lukewarm water soaking him.

“Clay? Talk to me, what’s happenin’?”

The high, thin sound of pain remained a moment or two longer before his body went limp, passed out again.

“God help me..”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from The Devil wears a Suit and Tie by Colter Wall


End file.
